Couch Time
by Nameless face in the crowd
Summary: I hate writing summaries.


I hadn't expected anyone to be at the warehouse this late. Paige had run off to pick up Ralph as soon as Cabe dropped us off. Sylvester had headed straight home, muttering to himself about the effects of sleep deprivation. Walter was visiting his sister and Toby; well we all just kind of assumed he was off making enemies at a card table somewhere. It had been a rough case and even those of us with less than standard levels of EQ recognized that. Even Paige hadn't questioned our collective desire to scatter for the night. Even I had headed back to my apartment. It was only after sleep had proven evasive that I returned to the warehouse to blow off some steam in my workshop.

I didn't notice him at first. The lights had been off when I came in and so I had gone straight to my tinkering. It was almost an hour later when I headed to the kitchen in search of a drink that I caught sight of his hat on the table. He wouldn't go anywhere without that stupid hat.

"Toby?" I call into the shadows of the warehouse. It's silent for a moment and I start to think that maybe he just forgot the hat and I'm standing here talking to myself. I turn to head back to my garage before I hear anything.

"Don't go." His voice is shaky and I wonder if the delayed response had something to do with the tears I can hear in his voice. I flip the light and its then that I see him. He's sitting ramrod straight on the edge of the couch. He doesn't make any effort to continue the conversation and I'm relieved. I'm not good at the whole talk about you feelings nonsense. That's probably why Toby and I bicker so often. I walk over slowly and flop down on the other end of the couch. We'd all been affected by the case. Even Walter had looked about ready to break. And, like after every other rough case, Toby would make his rounds tomorrow. He'd start with Sylvester as he always did; his voice would be far gentler than usual. Sly would spill his guts, tears were usually involved. Paige would be next. I don't think the rest of us ever really know what those two would talk about, but they would sit at the kitchen table for a while, speaking in hushed tones. He would try and talk to me after. I tend to be less than cooperative and prefer to work my aggressions out with a hammer. I could feel him watching me though. He'll watch me until I stopped hitting things and go back to my normal tinkering. He watched until he knew I was okay and that was all I really needed. He'd take care of Walter too, in some strange way that the rest of us would never really understand. But he'd take care of all of us tomorrow, filling his resident shrink obligations. I don't think any of us ever thought to wonder about who would take care of him. Is this how he copes? He sits alone in the dark and cries before sucking it up and taking care of us? The thought pulls at my heart in ways I like to pretend Toby can't.

"What do you need?" I whisper without turning my head to face him. I can't stand seeing him like this. "What do you need me to do Toby?" My words seem to wake him up and he moves for the first time since I flipped the light on. He slides across the couch to sit next to me and he reaches down and pulls my legs across his lap. The move catches me off guard, and my shoulders fall harshly against the couch's armrest. I prepare to suppress the urge to last out that usually accompanies physical contact, but I'm pleasantly surprised to find that it doesn't come. He pulls off my boots and tosses them somewhere on the floor. I stay perfectly still. I don't know what's going on, but I know he needs it to happen. And I think I'd do anything he needed me to do.

He swings his own legs up onto the couch then, and collapses onto me. His head comes to rest on my shoulder and his arms snake tightly around my torso. The weight is oddly comforting. He still hasn't answered me and I don't want to move. This is about him, not me. He does speak though, after his breathing returns from the choked sobs it was to a normal rhythm.

"Stay" he whispers, "I just need you to say." The pain in his voice breaks my heart and I want nothing more than to take it away. I bring my right arm up to hold him firmly in place and my left falls into the hair behind his ear. I work my fingers though the soft curls, and the contentment I feel scares me a little but I don't stop. I feel his breathing even out and I know he's drifted off to sleep.

I could slip out of his arms and retreat to the solitude of my apartment. It would probably be the best idea, for the sake of professionalism and distance and Sly's sake because God knows he'll have a heart attack when he walks in tomorrow morning and finds us like this. But I don't. I just tighten my arm around him and continue to run my fingers through his curls. I stay because he needs me to.


End file.
